


Brave

by whyarewestillhere



Category: Handsome Devil (2016)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Fix-It of Sorts, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:28:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24422053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whyarewestillhere/pseuds/whyarewestillhere
Summary: "For a second, after his winning kick, when Ned had come rushing out onto the field to meet him, just before they collided in that crushing hug that could have gone on for eternity, Conor had thought they were going to kiss. Or, maybe more accurately, he’d wanted to kiss Ned—and in that second, Ned beaming up at him, proud and excited and beautiful, it almost seemed as if Ned wanted to kiss him too."5 times Conor wanted to kiss Ned + 1 time he did.akaThe most poorly executed 5+1 things ever written, because apparently I can't count.
Relationships: Conor Masters/Ned Roche
Comments: 32
Kudos: 209





	Brave

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work, so any constructive criticism is very welcome.  
> When I first started writing this it was just meant to act as a replacement therapy session because I get way too attached to fictional characters, and it somehow turned into an over 7000 word 5+1 fic. I guess that's what I get for not planning my work before I write it.  
> I hope the two people still active in this fandom enjoy reading this!

-5.

For a second, after his winning kick, when Ned had come rushing out onto the field to meet him, just before they collided in that crushing hug that could have gone on for eternity, Conor had thought they were going to kiss. Or, maybe more accurately, he’d wanted to kiss Ned—and in that second, Ned beaming up at him, proud and excited and beautiful, it almost seemed as if Ned wanted to kiss him too.

But they hadn’t. Instead, they had wrapped their arms around one another and held on so tight Conor was sure they would never let go, while the rest of the team piled on around them—and that had been enough. More than enough, really.

Looking back, Conor was glad that they hadn’t—though Conor was out now, he hadn’t exactly had all that long to get used to the fact, and him kissing a boy in front of an entire stadium of spectators, who would all no doubt have something to say on the matter, was a far cry from a vague, abstract idea of him being attracted to some hypothetical blokes. On top of that, he didn’t want to incriminate Ned alongside him, due to and/or despite most of the school already labelling him as a ‘homo’. He had already caused Ned enough embarrassment and humiliation at this point, without doing the equivalent of essentially waving a large banner proclaiming 'Ned Roche is into blokes' on it.

And, of course, Conor wasn’t entirely sure that Ned actually did want to kiss him too.

-4.

The final hadn’t actually been the first time Conor had wanted to kiss Ned. The first time had probably, embarrassingly, been the very first time he laid eyes on him. He remembered his first impression of Ned being that he was stupidly pretty, with his shock of red hair and slim frame and ears sticking out endearingly. They had only locked eyes for a couple of seconds before Ned had fled the scene, but it was enough to leave a lasting impression. 

But Conor had come to this new school for a fresh start. No one could know, or even suspect in any way that he was gay—hell, Conor himself could only bring himself to acknowledge this part of him when he was half drunk and delirious, and he intended to keep it that way. Ned had hated him immediately anyway, so that hadn’t exactly been a great prospect for a potential love interest. And then they had become friends, and Conor couldn’t risk the unlikely friendship that had blossomed between them just because Ned fell into the category of guys that he considered attractive.

So, the desire was squashed down and pushed away to the very furthest corner of his mind. Yet, foolishly, desperately, he couldn’t quite fully extinguish the flame of hope burning on the memory of Ned’s ripped Suede poster in Weasel’s hand, which signified that Ned might be on the outside in the same way that he was.

-3.

After the final there was, inevitably, a definite shift in their relationship, somehow becoming simultaneously more open as well as more strained.

Ned still felt guilty for outing Conor (though Conor had pretty much already forgiven him at “don’t do it for them, do it for us” and “it’s my team if you’re playing on it”) and Conor still felt guilty for—regretfully quite literally—pushing Ned away and essentially abandoning him, on Weasel’s account, of all people (though Conor did hope that Ned had forgiven him too).

Ned did try to argue that him outing Conor was a far worse offence, but now that his secret was—for lack of a better term—out, Conor was almost grateful for it: he no longer had the same burden of fear and paranoia weighing him down at all times, a perfect ransom that had allowed people to control him for too long. He was free. (There was also the voice in the back of his head that said that he would have never been brave enough to come out on his own terms, but he tried not to think about that. Maybe because it felt scarily true.)

Sure, he received odd looks, intrigued or judgemental he couldn’t tell, and some of the lads at school whispered behind his back or avoided him in the hall, but no one seemed interested in tormenting him the same way they had Ned. Whether that was because they still had the memory of Weasel’s broken nose and of his reputation for fighting that had followed him from his old school, or because they genuinely respected him for his performance on the field and winning them the cup, he didn’t know, or particularly care. He, for the most part, felt that he had the support of the team behind him, in particular Wally and Victor, who were the first to (both literally and figuratively) stand with him against Pascal, and had since moved from the category of “teammates” to “friends” in the privacy of his mind. And most importantly, he still had Ned.

So, on the whole, being out was undeniably a more positive experience than he had expected, at least now that he had recovered from the initial cold shame and debilitating panic that had followed his abrupt exposure. And now that Conor was done denying to himself and to everyone else that he was gay, the desire to kiss Ned was resurfacing ever more frequently. As it turned out, it was harder to repress liking a specific boy when he was no longer having to repress liking boys in general. Now the only blockade to his feelings was the small fact that, oh yeah, Ned might not even be gay, let alone attracted to or romantically interested in Conor. God, he was so screwed.

He wasn’t exactly keen to breach the subject of Ned’s sexuality after the previous reception to his enquiry, but this time Ned would be less on the offence, and the need to know if Ned was really _like him_ (and so if he had any chance of his feelings ever being reciprocated) was too strong to resist. And guiltily, Conor thought that he somewhat deserved to know, considering Ned knew about him, and presumably had for some time. Eye for an eye and all that.

Conor decided to breach the subject one evening, amid them messing around on their guitars in the record room.

“So, uh, you remember, back on Sirius, what you said about it being your team if I’m playing on it?”

Ned ducked his head with an embarrassed smile, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Yeah, of course I do, that was some of my best work,” he joked, before adding in a more sincere tone, “I did mean it you know.”

Conor hated how much he warmed at the admission but took it as encouragement stick it out and just ask the damn question, gripping his guitar like a lifeline.

“Well, I was just wondering, if we were also playing for the same team, in the other sense of the word, too?”

Ned snapped his head back up to look at him, with wide eyes, and a faint blush creeping up his neck. 

Conor quickly backpedalled, immediately regretting his decision. “You know what? Forget I said anything—you don’t have to answer that—it was a stupid question anyway—”

“Conor,” Ned interjected, interrupting his panicked rambling, “Conor. It’s fine, don’t worry. Are you—you are asking me if I’m gay, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” Conor sighed, “sorry for the weird euphemism or whatever that was, I should have—well, I should’ve just asked you outright, I just didn’t want—”

“A repeat of ‘I’m not gonna bum you in the night’?” Ned raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah…” Conor’s eyes flitted around the room nervously, tapping sporadically on the side of his guitar with his knuckles, “…just forget it, if you’re not comfortable answering I get it.”

Ned huffed out a halfhearted laugh, that more resembled a sigh than anything else. “I think I owe you that at least, after what I did, it’s only fair to, uh, even the playing field a bit, so to speak.” Ned’s gaze shifted back down to the floor. He took a breath; Conor tried not to hold his.

“So, well, I don’t think I’m _gay_ because I do like girls…”

Conor’s body flushed cold as his heart dropped to his feet and all but shattered on the floor. He tried not to let his face convey his disappointment, though Ned with his eyes still fixed to the floor couldn’t see it anyway.

“But,” Ned continued, in a voice that was barely more than a whisper, “I’m not straight because I definitely like blokes as well.”

Conor’s heart had apparently returned to his chest, and was thudding wildly, as if it were trying to escape his rib cage, as Ned peered tentatively at him through his eyelashes. They were quite long, Conor noted absentmindedly, and framed his eyes nicely. And, wow, did Ned have pretty eyes—not that Conor hadn’t realised that before.

“Thank you for telling me,” he breathed, matching Ned’s low tone, so as not to disturb the tension, that he was sure he wasn’t just imagining, hanging in the air between them. Treacherously, his eyes flicked down to Ned’s lips. His urge to kiss Ned had never been stronger, the flame of hope growing into a blazing fire that scorched his insides with longing.

“Can you believe it?” mused Ned, “Two queers in one room—I bet our dear old headmaster wasn’t expecting that when he blessed you with me as your roommate.”

Conor couldn’t help but burst out laughing (at his own senseless thoughts as much as at Ned’s words), Ned following suit, until their chests were heaving and whatever moment they had been having had dissipated completely.

Conor couldn’t tell if what he was feeling was more disappointment or relief.

-2.

“So,” asked Wally one day when they were walking out from the changing rooms after training, “are you and Ned, like, dating?”

Conor almost choked on his own spit and spluttered uselessly before Victor thankfully interrupted him.

“I’ll take that as a no then. I mean, I know Weasel was just trying to get a reaction, but I don’t think he was that far off when he said Ned was in love with you. Although…” Victor said, drawing out the ‘o’ and checking Conor with his shoulder, “…maybe he got it the wrong way round.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about mate.” Conor tried to sound casual.

“It’s just that,” Wally said, “you two spend so much time together down in your little ‘secret’ record room, and we all wonder what you’re doing down there.”

Conor momentarily closed his eyes in despair and tried not to scream and/or throttle Wally.

“We play guitar.”

“Oh, so that’s what they’re calling it nowadays.”

“Leave him alone Wally,” Victor said amusedly, “just because you can’t get any action doesn’t mean you have to live vicariously through Conor here.”

“It’s not my fault there are no girls in a fifteen-mile radius of this damn school!”

As Wally and Victor bickered, Conor considered the possibility that people other than his idiot friends were speculating about him and Ned being together. The idea made him feel in both parts nauseous and oddly pleased. He wasn’t sure that Ned would be too happy about their peers making that kind of assumption. He also knew partly that it was just the natural reaction to two (rumoured) gay guys rooming together—but part of him wondered if it could be possible that Victor was right and Ned _did_ feel something for him, and that was why people thought that they were together. And of course, maybe it was only Victor and Wally speculating about his love life, and no one else had even given it a second thought.

A shout from Wally jolted Conor out of his thoughts.

“Oi Ned!”

Conor looked up to see a figure with red hair strolling leisurely towards them. One thing that had not changed was Ned’s determination to physically exert himself as little as possible, at least in scenarios that he didn’t feel warranted his full effort, which was most times.

“Not a word, okay?” he hissed through gritted teeth at Wally and Victor who seemed far too happy to see Ned.

“Whatever you say Masters.”

Ned had become fairly comfortable around Wally and Victor, despite their dodgy history, though Wally had never really been that involved in bullying Ned, and Victor had more been the one breaking up the teasing than the one starting it. Still, Ned had been understandably dubious when Conor had first tried to play friendship matchmaker between his essentially only three legitimate friends, but now Conor was happy to see that they were at least getting along, if nothing else (but he suspected that they were actually becoming fond of one another). 

Conor recalled Victor approaching them in the aftermath game.

_“Again,” Victor had said, clapping Conor on the shoulder, “well done on the kick Conor. I can’t tell you how happy I am that we’ve finally won the cup. Hopefully now Pascal eases up on us a bit.”_ _He nodded at Ned in acknowledgement. “Ned. Thanks for bringing him back. Sorry about all the shit from before, I should have done more to intervene. I’ve told Weasel to back off, but you know what he’s like.”_

_Ned had just shrugged. “It’s fine, someone’s gotta be the punching bag. Lucky I’ve got a big strong rugby player to protect me now,” he had said, nudging Conor with his elbow._

_“Piss poor job I did at that, didn’t I?”_

_“I’m sure I can find it in my heart to forgive you.”_

_Victor had looked between them inquisitively but only said, “He did punch Weasel in the face the first time he played with us, so he’s certainly got potential.”_

“So, boys, how was practice?” Ned inquired.

Conor rolled his eyes at him. “Like you care, Mr. I-couldn’t-give-a-flying-fuck-about-rugby.”

Ned threw a hand to his chest in and widened his eyes dramatically in mock offence. “I ask about your training session and this is the thanks I get? You wound me so, Conor. Wallace, Victor, do either of you appreciate my interest in your well-being?”

“I think Pascal hates me,” lamented Wally, forlornly.

“Don’t worry mate,” said Victor, patting him on the shoulder consolingly, “he does hate you—your evaluation is correct.”

“I really feel so much better now, cheers Victor.”

“Do you two _ever_ stop squabbling?” Conor groaned through an exasperated grin.

“Now that is rich coming from you Conor—you and Ned are always at it.”

“Okay, I don’t know how I feel about the phrasing of that,” Ned grimaced, “but, to be fair, it’s true that Conor is always arguing with me—I like to think it’s his love language.”

Conor pointedly ignored Wally waggling his eyebrows at him in his peripheral vision and opted to rebuff Ned.

“Ned—I do not argue with you all the time. You’re definitely the more argumentative one out of the two of us.”

Ned sighed exaggeratedly, wiping a non-existent tear from his eye, “See, there he goes again. Tragic, all the shit I have to put up with.”

Victor shook his head as if in disbelief and snorted exasperatedly. “You guys are cute.”

“Hey! What’s that supposed to mean?” protested Ned, his brow furrowed.

Conor wanted to strangle someone (read: Victor).

As if he could sense Conor’s murderous intent, Victor then decided that that was an opportune moment to take his leave.

“Oi, Wally, race you to the canteen,” he shot in Wally’s general direction before breaking into a sprint towards the school building, shortly pursued by Wally, following a muttered “oh fuck”.

“Why do they suck so much?” Conor asked to no one in particular, contemplating why he had decided that those idiots were his friends. Shockingly, he did not receive an answer.

“Do you know what Victor was on about?” Conor turned his attention back to Ned, who looked considerably redder than he had just a minute ago. Conor wondered absentmindedly whether Ned’s skin would feel hot under his hand if he reached out and brushed his fingers across his cheek, but quickly pushed the thought away because, ew, that was definitely a creepy and inappropriate thought to have about your best friend, and because he didn’t want to do anything embarrassing like actually reach out and touch Ned’s cheek.

Conor tried his best to keep a neutral tone of voice as he said, “Oh, you know… I wouldn’t worry about it—they’ve just been making jokes about us dating, because I'm gay and everyone thinks you're gay anyway, and of course two guys that just both happen to be gay can’t just be friends.”

He didn’t say, “They’re just making fun of me for being slightly in love with you and giving me false hope that you could like me back, and of course two guys that happen to be gay can be friends but I want us to be more than that.”

Jerkily, Ned nodded his head once, leaving him staring at the ground with pursed lips, hands in pockets. If Conor didn’t know better, he would have thought Ned looked almost disappointed—but he was sure he was just projecting.

“So, they think I like you? Are they making fun of me, or what?” Ned said in a slightly quieter voice than before. Conor had never been happier about Ned jumping to a wrong conclusion than he was now, but there was undeniably a note of sadness and hurt in Ned’s voice which considerably lessened the relief. 

“No, no, don’t worry, it’s all just jokes, y’know? Between friends and all that.”

Admittedly, it hurt to know that Ned found such offence in their friends thinking he could like Conor, but he understood that Ned wouldn’t appreciate being made fun of for liking someone even if it wasn’t even true, especially in the vein of insensitive gay jokes. Or, maybe, what if Ned liked one of them, and he was upset at the prospect of them thinking he was with Conor. He could see Ned liking Victor—he was undeniably handsome, not half bad academically, and perhaps Ned saw him as a knight in shining armour of sorts, there to make sure Weasel didn’t go too far (with varying degrees of success and conviction nonetheless). Something cold and ugly started to rear its head in Conor’s stomach, vying to extinguish any of his past hope. Maybe he was starting to regret trying to bring them together.

“I just wouldn’t want to ruin your reputation or anything,” Ned joked halfheartedly, not quite meeting his eyes.

“Don’t worry, you already manage that,” Conor quipped back, trying to fall back into their natural rhythm of playful jests and insults, but it felt uncomfortable and forced.

Conor just wanted to reach out and kiss the frown off Ned’s face, take his chance before he lost it to Victor, who he had no real reason to suppose Ned even liked apart from the crowing of his own paranoid thoughts.

But Ned had always been the more reckless of the two of them, bolder and braver—contrary to what it might look like from the outside—so instead he did what he did best: ran away from his problems. “So, you gonna race me to the canteen?”

-1.

Conor’s desire to kiss his best friend was really getting out of hand at this point. It was affecting his schoolwork, though that was never particularly his main priority; his performance in rugby, which was definitely not doing much to strengthen his tenuous relationship with Pascal; and worst of all, Conor could’ve sworn Ned was starting to catch on. There had been several incidences of him zoning out and staring at Ned’s lips while they were in the records room, warranting some odd looks from Ned, as well as several interactions with impatient teachers due to him ignoring class in favour of fruitlessly analysing whether Ned might possibly like Victor.

They were sitting in their dorm room, with Conor pretending to concentration on his maths problems and Ned attempting to roll a joint, when Ned asked absentmindedly,

“Do you reckon there are any more of us in our year?” Conor drew his eyes away from where they were staring unfocused at his work, to look at Ned. “Y’know, queers?”

“Why?” he queried, trying to ignore the bitter taste in his mouth the question left, “you trying to pull someone or something?”

Ned scoffed and rolled his eyes, but Conor was sure he saw his cheeks redden almost imperceptibly in the low light of their room.

“I was gonna ask you that actually.” The simple statement felt like an accusation and a rejection all at once. “Besides, I would’ve thought you’d be anxious to dispel any rumours about us being… together… or whatever.”

“What, and the best way to do that is to hook up with the next guy in our year we find out is gay? Plus, you really think anyone else here is gonna come out voluntarily while they’re still at school?”

Ned winced visibly at ‘voluntarily’.

“I—sorry that’s not what I—I’ve told you; I’ve already forgiven you for that.”

“Yeah. Whatever, it’s fine.”

An awkward silence pervaded the room.

“You know,” Conor stage-whispered conspiratorially, “I reckon Weasel’s gay—no one can be that obsessed with someone else’s sexuality without being insecure in their own.”

“Well then, I’m flattered by his interest,” Ned replied, leaning towards Conor, and squinting faux-contemplatively, “but I don’t think I can really look past the years of incessant bullying. Shame—what a wasted opportunity.”

“What about, um, Victor?” Conor posited, hoping he wouldn’t regret asking.

“Victor—why? Anything to suggest that he’s queer?”

“I don’t know! Was there anything to suggest I was gay? He could be like, madly in love with Wally for all we know.”

Ned laughed. “I mean seeing you walk into a gay bar was a bit of a giveaway. And I’m fairly sure Victor is not in any way attracted to Wally.”

“All the better for you then.” Conor waggled his eyebrows at Ned and hoped the statement read as a joke, and not what it really was, which was a not so subtle way for Conor to gauge whether Ned did like Victor, like his brain had helpfully supplied.

“Conor,” Ned scoffed and furrowed his eyebrows, “I hate to burst your bubble but I’m _not_ into Victor.”

“Not into that rugby player aesthetic then?”

Ned shrugged slightly, his eyes flicking down to where he was still fiddling with the rolling paper from his neglected cigarette, tongue darting out to wet his lips and successfully drawing Conor’s attention to his mouth. “I didn’t say that.”

“Oh.” Conor tried not to sound too hopeful. He didn’t want to assume, but it almost seemed as if Ned, now staring intently at Conor for his reaction and radiating a nervous energy that Conor recognised but couldn’t quite place, was flirting. With him. Which… did that mean he knew? Or could it mean that… The thought of Ned returning his feelings was almost too painful to genuinely consider. Conor wondered if he was just torturing himself, but he could’ve sworn that Ned’s gaze had flitted down to his lips, and for whatever reason, Conor was feeling brave tonight, his hope back in full force as a roaring fire, burning through the barriers of his fear and common sense.

“Ned, there’s something I—”

Before Conor could finish his sentence, or even really begin it, Wally hurtled into their room, brandishing a bottle of vodka in one hand.

“Oi lads, d’you wanna come get drunk with us? Sweet—is that a joint?”

The universe was clearly trying to tell Conor that confessing would be a bad idea, because this was getting ridiculous. (Though he probably would have chickened out at the last minute anyway, his brain taunted him.)

Ned rubbed at his nose, breaking his eye contact with Conor, “Err, um, not quite yet—it’s a work in progress. What’s the occasion?”

“No clue—sure we’ll think of something.”

“Who’s ‘us’?” asked Conor, trying to quell the hammering in his chest from his almost confession.

“Just the team and that.”

“Are you sure I’m invited then?” Ned asked.

“Obviously you’re invited, I’m inviting you now!”

Victor appeared behind him in the doorway. “Are they coming then?”

“What about Weasel?” Ned still sounded apprehensive.

“Weasel can go fuck himself if he has a problem.”

Ned glanced at Conor as if for confirmation, or possibly to check Conor’s reaction to the prospect of drinking with the team again after the disastrous results of last time.

Conor just shrugged. “Sure. I, uh, won’t be drinking though.”

Wally’s enthusiasm was undeterred. “Sure, whatever you want mate, let’s go!”

0.

Ned was drunk—like properly drunk.

Conor’s head ached in sympathy for the impending hangover that awaited Ned the next morning. Despite his initial trepidation, Ned seemed to have no qualms of participating enthusiastically in various drinking games with various members of the team. Conor preferred to watch other people making fools of themselves than embarrass himself, besides, as the only one without a drink, the drinking games were largely pointless for him, so, after doing what he felt constituted as a sufficient level of socialising, he hung back by the wall, at some points accompanied by Victor who, while not completely abstaining from drinking, felt that as the team captain, he should at least maintain some semblance of sobriety in order to make sure things didn’t get too rowdy.

As most people there wouldn’t remember the evening by the time they woke up, Conor allowed himself to indulge in just watching Ned, appreciating the sight of him throwing his head back in laughter and his general carefree drunk demeanour. Victor followed his line of site to where Ned was attempting to do a handstand, egged on by Wally and several other chanting schoolmates.

“All jokes aside,” he said, “you really do like him, don’t you?”

“I tolerate him.”

Victor fixed him with a knowing ‘done with your shit’ look.

Conor sighed, dipping his head in defeat. “I guess I do.”

“Don’t look so miserable mate, I’d bet good money that he feels the same way.”

“Or maybe he just feels a keen sense of camaraderie with me because I’m the first person at this stupid school to actually befriend him and not take the piss out of him for supposedly being gay?”

Victor snorted. “‘A keen sense of—'. What the _fuck_ are you on about mate? That might be the dumbest fucking thing you’ve ever said, and that’s saying something—”

“Oh, great, thanks.”

“—and you’re not even drunk!” He punched Conor in the shoulder good-naturedly. “Look, I’m gonna go get another drink, and you should go rescue Ned before he does something stupid like break his neck trying to do a back-flip or something.”

As if summoned by Victor’s words, Ned was at that moment deposited unceremoniously into Conor’s side accompanied by a shout of, “Your boyfriend’s a fucking lightweight Masters!”

“He’s not my—ah fuck.”

“Good luck mate.” Victor left him with a wink and an inebriated Ned plastered to his side.

“Conor!” The excitement in Ned’s voice sent a twinge of affection through Conor’s heart.

“Looked like you were having a good time.”

“Conor,” Ned slurred matter of factly, temporarily attempting to support his own weight before slumping back onto Conor ineffectively, “I’m having the best time. Or, well, it would’ve been better if you’d been joining in with the games too, but I get that you’re boring like that.”

Conor tried to look unimpressed, but that was hard to do when Ned was clinging to his side like a friendly octopus, giggling at his own joke.

“You know everyone thinks I’m your boyfriend? I keep trying to tell them that I’m not, because I was thinking, ‘Conor wouldn’t want people to think that about us,’ but I don’t think they care, and—” he lowered his voice in an imitation of a whisper, “—can I tell you a secret? I don’t really care either.”

Conor could have sworn his heart had stopped. “No? And why—why’s that?”

“Honestly Conor,” Ned looked at him with such fond exasperation that it temporarily left Conor unable to breathe, “you can be so stupid sometimes.”

Conor would have felt offended if he weren’t so confused and apprehensively hopeful. “What do you mean by th—?”

Nothing could have prepared him for Ned abruptly pressing a messy kiss somewhere in the general area between his mouth and chin, and then burying his head in Conor’s shoulder. Promptly, his entire body experienced spontaneous combustion. He was sure his expression was currently hysterical, frozen in astonishment, despite the heat flooding his face.

“Ugh,” Ned whined, evidently oblivious to Conor’s inner turmoil, “I feel like I’m gonna throw up.”

Conor’s initial shock was slowly being replaced by a creeping dread. Ned was absolutely plastered—the chances were that he wouldn’t even remember this by the next morning, or worse: that Ned would regret it, humiliated by his drunken mistake that in no way reflected his feelings when sober.

Reprimanding himself for freaking out so much, Conor tried to slow his racing thoughts. It was only a short press of lips—and not even on the mouth. Friends kissed each other all the time, right? At worst it would be slightly awkward for a few days, Ned would probably just laugh it off, unaware that Conor’s heart was breaking.

But he couldn’t shake off Ned’s comments about not caring that the guys thought they were dating, and his traitor brain kept replaying the expression on his face and the tone of his voice before he had kissed him—it had to mean something.

His brain was going to have a field day keeping him up with this one.

+1.

“Oh god,” Ned groaned, “I want to die.”

“Yeah, good morning to you too.”

Ned neglected to reply, rolling heavily onto his front, and pulling his pillow over his head clumsily.

Conor chewed on the inside of his cheek and drummed his fingers against his knee apprehensively—there was so far no indication as to how much of the previous night’s events Ned remembered. If Ned remembered the kiss, then they should get it out of the way and talk about it, but if Ned didn’t remember it, then Conor didn’t want to remind him and make things unnecessarily uncomfortable. He rubbed his hands over his face restlessly.

“Are you coming to breakfast?”

Ned replied from below his pillow in a muffled voice. “Conor, I’m never leaving my bed again. But—” he said, lifting the corner of the pillow and opening one eye to look imploringly at Conor as best as he could with half of his face smushed into the mattress, “—you could bring up some food for me though…”

It was honestly unfairly adorable, Conor didn’t think he could’ve actually said no. But he had a reputation to uphold.

“How do I know you’re not going to throw up on me if I do that?”

“Please—you wouldn’t want me to die of starvation, would you?”

“Fine,” Conor was really going for reluctant, but it came out as more amused, “just try and be out of bed before I get back—have a shower or something, you probably reek of beer.”

Ned grunted unconvincingly in response, and Conor took it as his cue to leave.

On getting down to the food hall Conor could see that most of the team was in a similar half dead state to Ned. After collecting food for both him and Ned, Conor played a quick game of ‘Where’s Wally?’ and found him pouring coffee pretty much everywhere except his cup, and sitting opposite a much better off looking Victor.

“Maybe try aiming for the cup,” Victor patronised.

“You try aiming for the cup when your head feels like it’s getting bashed in by a hammer.”

“Maybe if you didn’t drink so much…”

“Oh, thank you Victor, thank you for your brainy contribution.”

Victor greeted Conor as he sat down beside him. “Hey Conor—where’s Ned?”

“He refuses to leave his bed—fucking drama queen.”

“Lightweight,” Wally muttered into his coffee.

“He told me to bring some food up for him,” Conor said, gesturing to the extra plate with a tilt of his head.

“Sweet of you,” said Victor.

“It’s not that sweet.”

“It’s pretty sweet.” Conor glared at him. “Hey—I wonder how much he remembers of last night.”

Conor shrugged noncommittally, poking at one of his sausages with a fork, as if that wasn’t what he had been worrying about since the so far unaddressed kiss. Luckily, it didn’t seem as if Victor or Wally remembered it either.

“D’you reckon he remembers kissing you?” Victor asked, lowering his voice.

Or maybe they did. Conor tried to keep his panic at a minimum—he could deal with this.

“He what?” Wally winced at his own exclamation, for which he received several glares, but suddenly seemed much more awake. Conor crossed his arms on the table to pillow his head as he let it drop downwards, narrowly avoiding his plate. He could not deal with this.

“Mate,” Wally said incredulously, “ _how_ is this bad? You two were like disgustingly pining over each other and then Ned grew a pair and finally did something about it!”

Conor raised his head with about as much as enthusiasm as Ned had had to get out of bed—none. “Did you miss the part where he was drunk, and either doesn’t remember it, or doesn’t want to?”

“Have you even talked to him about it? How do you know how he feels about it? Get your head out of your arse and stop assuming he doesn’t like you back.”

“Never thought Wally would be the voice of reason,” said Victor, looking grudgingly impressed, “but for once—”

“Oi!”

“—he does have a point. Ned was brave last night, and now it’s your turn.”

Conor knew Victor was right—Ned was always being the brave one. Someone more cynical may have said he was reckless, thoughtless even, at times verging on the edge of self destructive—but Conor respected him for it, almost envied him for being able to take a risk and disregard what others may think of him for it. Over time, Conor liked to think that being friends with Ned had made him more adventurous, more open to new things, the most notable, of course, being when Ned had convinced him to do his bit in the final. Playing in the game had meant a victory for the team, it was true—but it was more than that: it had sparked a new life for Conor, one where he could live openly, not hide like a coward behind fist fights and manufactured hostility. But now he wasn’t even willing to take a chance and tell Ned how he felt?

“For fuck’s sake…” Briefly, Conor let his head flop back down into the safety of his arms before forcing himself to get up from the table with his and Ned's (now mostly cold) breakfasts. “I hate it when you’re right.”

“Go get your boy!” Conor rolled his eyes good-naturedly at Wally’s enthusiasm.

“Just know that I’d be flipping you off right now if I had a free hand.”

“Jesus, I thought you were meant to be hungover,” Conor heard Victor say to Wally with a mixture of respect and exasperation, their conversation fading from his hearing as he started on the disappointingly short walk back to his and Ned’s dorm.

When he arrived, their room was blessedly empty. He set down their plates on his dresser and sat down on the edge of his bed, staring blankly at the, what he knew on good authority was carefully curated, poster covered wall on Ned’s side of the room, as if the correct words to say to Ned would magically appear there. When no such intervention from any wall dwelling spirits came, Conor started to run through potential conversation starters in his head.

“I really like you, and you kissed me last night so I’m hoping it’s mutual.” Too presumptive? He didn’t want to phrase it in a way that might pressure Ned into agreeing.

“You kissed me last night. I don’t know if you remember, but we should talk about it.” Too easy to misinterpret—he didn’t want Ned to take it as a rejection.

“We’re the only two out queer guys at this school—wanna date?” Too desperate and, to be honest, kind of offensive.

“Ned Roche, I’m hopelessly in love with you.” Just _way_ too dramatic.

Conor flopped backwards onto his bed despairingly. Why was this so hard? His ideas were only getting worse, the first probably being his most viable option, though he was reluctant to use even that—probably because he was reluctant to say anything at all.

But he was being brave. He _was_ going to do this, and they _were_ going to talk about it.

“Oh hey, Conor, you’re back. Took you long enough, I thought I was gonna die of starvation up here…” Ned had walked in, hair damp from the shower and wearing Conor’s hoodie, and Conor’s brain pretty much short circuited. “I borrowed your hoodie, hope you don’t mind, I—Conor?”

Before he could stop himself, Conor had stood abruptly from his bed, grabbed Ned’s face in his hands, and kissed him.

In terms of aim it was already much better than the kiss Ned had given him. But okay, this was not according to plan. Holy fucking shit was this not according to plan. Hastily, Conor released Ned’s face and took a step, which was really more of a stumble, back. Very suave. Not to be dramatic, but Conor wanted to throw himself off a cliff. 

“Um,” said Ned eloquently, closely resembling a tomato or another, alternative, suitably red fruit, “that was—I, um—yep, uh, cool. Cool… Cool.”

“Are you done saying cool yet?” Conor was going to need some more input from Ned than ‘cool’ if he wanted to avoid completely collapsing to the floor in embarrassment.

“Erm, yeah. Sorry.” Ned rocked slowly back and forth on his heels, staring at his feet sheepishly. “Guess I didn’t just dream up that I’d kissed you then? God, that’s so embarrassing, I’m so sorry Conor, I don’t know what—wait, hang on—hang on—you kissed me!”

With how sporadically Ned was switching trains of thought, Conor was getting whiplash. Ned was honest to god going to be the death of him.

“You got any more bright observations?”

“Yeah actually! Well, no—but, you kissed me!” Ned stopped suddenly and eyed Conor suspiciously, face becoming more guarded. “Hang on, why did you kiss me?”

Conor regarded Ned disbelievingly. “And you called _me_ stupid...”

“Oh—so I didn’t imagine that part either, then.”

“No, you didn’t but—”

“Well, sorry about that I guess?”

“—but Ned—just listen, okay? That’s not the point—the point is that, that I really, really, really, like you—you know, in a gay, not just platonic best mates kind of way.”

“Oh.” Ned’s brain was apparently struggling to compute for the hundredth time that day, and Conor began to feel as if he was going to throw up. This had all been a massive mistake, and he’d put his foot in it by being stupid and presumptive and kissing Ned instead of talking about it first and now it was going to be so much harder to do damage control and what if Ned hated him and—

“That happens to be extremely convenient, because I really like you too, in a gay-not-just-platonic-best-mates way.”

‘Oh,’ Conor thought.

“Oh,” Conor said, innovatively. He tried not to look to shocked, but damn if he was going to be embarrassed for being happy. He had taken a risk and it had payed off: Ned liked him back, their friendship remained intact, and now he had a whole plethora of new ammunition with which to tease Ned.

“As a wise man once said—” He paused for dramatic effect, grinning at Ned, “—cool.”

“Fuck off—it’s not my fault my brain shut down when rugby star Conor Masters suddenly kissed me out of nowhere.” Ned was still blushing madly, but at least it seemed that his brain was back in commission. And to be honest Conor thought flustered was a good look on him, but he could admit to probably being at least a bit biased—he always thought Ned looked good.

“Rugby star? I’m flattered, always nice to hear from a fan.”

“Shut it.”

“Am I supposed to tell you to ‘make me’ now, or?”

“I mean, either way, I’ll take you up on that.”

And then they were kissing again—but properly this time, with active participation from both of them—which was nice. More than nice. So nice Conor almost felt like crying. He had never kissed anyone he liked this much, or been kissed by anyone who really liked him back, at least not in a way that extended past the initial physical attraction to what little of him they could see, in whatever dimly lit gay bar that Conor had found himself in, but shouldn’t have even been in in the first place. This was miles better than that, because it was Ned, and things were always better with Ned.

Ned, Ned, Ned—he was all Conor could think about, so solid and real and beautifully imperfect under his hands. This felt like nailing the kick, like acceptance from his teammates, like a crushing hug that could have gone on for eternity. It felt like finally being brave.

Conor broke away from the kiss to look Ned in the eyes when he was smiling too much to keep going. “Thank you.”

“For what?” Ned asked with a smile and a raised eyebrow, and Conor was reasonably proud to hear the slight crack in his voice when he spoke, “The kiss? Glad you appreciated it so much.”

“Ha-ha,” said Conor, “no, not the kiss, though that was pretty nice. Thank you for forcing me to be brave…”

“Conor I—”

“Look, no it’s not about the outing thing. Or, well, it kind of is, but it’s also not. It’s about you. You’re always just so unafraid to be yourself and take risks and not care what other people think. I just—you inspire me to be better—bolder, braver.”

Considering how complimentary Conor had just been, the look Ned gave him was rather more unimpressed than Conor would have expected.

“I’m really considering withdrawing my apology for calling you stupid—”

“Well, okay then.”

“—I am the opposite of brave, and I definitely care what people think about me—I think you should be able to tell by now that the indifference is all an act, to make them think it doesn’t bother me. Which it does—just want to make that clear. I just figured, if they already hate me for being different, might as well stick out as much as possible—not like it could make it any worse for me. Outing you—that was the most cowardly thing I’ve ever done; I just wanted the attention on someone else for once. Ironic, seeing the massive fucking spectacle I went and made of it. If anything, you inspired me to brave. I finally had someone who I cared about enough to actually take a stand for. I mean, the only reason I jumped out of a car, and more importantly ran _literal miles_ just to hang out with some rugby players, was because of you.”

Conor had always found the image of Ned jumping out his dad’s car comical. But also, jarringly sweet, that Ned, the boy who resented having to exert himself more than anything else in life, had sprinted all the way to school, and then to Sirius, for him. Looking back, yeah, maybe he was a bit stupid to think Ned didn’t like him back.

“Oh good, glad that’s what I’m gonna be remembered for in the biography of Ned Roche—the boy who made him jump daringly out of a moving car in the name of rugby.”

“No way,” Ned said earnestly, “you’re the boy who changed everything. You gave me a reason to be brave, if that’s how you want to put it—before that I was just kind of lonely and pretentious. And to be fair, describing the car as ‘moving’ might be a bit liberal.”

“You changed everything for me too,” Conor said and then leaned in to kiss Ned again, because he could do that now, until his mind returned to the two plates abandoned on his dresser.

“So, are you not going to eat the breakfast I so kindly brought up for you?”

“What—you getting bored of me already?” Ned teased, through a bright grin that lit up his whole face so that his eyes crinkled delightfully at the corners. Conor didn’t think he had ever seen anything more beautiful or radiant in his life. “I guess I could maybe sacrifice some of my precious time to eat breakfast, if I have to. As long as you kiss me again after.”

Like Conor could refuse that offer.

“Deal.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> (I hope they weren't too out of character and that there weren't too many mistakes because I edited this myself.)


End file.
